All I Wanted Was You
by NCISthemedname
Summary: John and Sherlock are given another case by their favorite psychopath. It proves to be more dangerous than they first thought but the results, well, Johnlock is always worth it. Rated T for violence and mild cursing.


John, where are you? – SH

_The pub, why? – JW_

Why are you there? – SH

_Watching a match and having a pint. Why else? Where are you? – JW_

In the flat. You didn't clean it. – SH

Lestrade has brought by a new case. Come. – SH

_You could ask a bit nicer. – JW_

_Or you could ask period. – JW_

Would you like to come with me? – SH

I don't see why it matters. You always come anyway. – SH

_It matters because it's polite. – JW_

John, you know me. I am not the polite one in this "relationship." – SH

_What do you mean "relationship"? – JW_

_Why the quotes? – JW_

Well, we aren't in a relationship, are we? You are my friend and flat mate. Unless we have become something more, I thought it was correct to put it as "relationship." – SH

_Why didn't you just say friendship then? – JW_

It didn't sound right. – SH

_Why not? – JW_

It sounds too…ordinary for us. – SH

Even if we were in a relationship, that would be too ordinary too. – SH

_So what would you call us if we were in a hypothetical relationship? - JW_

I do not think there is a word for it. – SH

Wait… - SH

Did you just accept the possibility of a relationship, John? – SH

_Did I? If I did, you did it first. – JW_

I only threw out there that there would be no word for it if it existed. – SH

_And I said hypothetical. – JW_

As did I. – SH

_So that's sorted. – JW_

No, it's not. John, you usually shout or confirm by this point you are not gay. You have not done so. – SH

Have you had a change of heart? – SH

_All I did was agree that we were not ordinary. – JW_

You did no such thing. – SH

_Okay, I meant to. We are not ordinary. – JW_

No, we are not. – SH

I do hope you are not drinking yourself to the point of utter intoxication. – SH

_I'm not. I've just had two. – JW_

Good. – SH

Your assistance is still needed on this case, John. – SH

_Right. My assistance as a doctor, your friend, your flatmate, or something else? – JW_

John, this is a case. Do not get snippy with me. We will discuss this later. – SH

_Fine, I'm on my way home. – JW_

No, take a cab to the crime scene. I've waited too long. – SH

I wish you were not so distracting, John. We could have solved this already if you had just come the first time. – SH

_I'm not sure what you need me for anyway, but I've got a cab. – JW_

Because your eye is just as necessary as mine. – SH

And I like company on a case. The skull is too distracting and disturbing for others….and Mrs. Hudson has taken it indefinitely. – SH

_Genius needs an audience besides Donovan and Anderson. – JW_

Their lack of intellect lowers the IQ of the entire street. Besides, they are too busy, what is it, eye-fucking? – SH

…_I wasn't aware that you knew that term. - JW_

I am much more observant to the modern language than most people think. – SH

That and Mycroft sent me a link to some website called Tumblr. – SH

_Oh God. I was thinking Urban Dictionary. – JW_

Urban Dictionary? – SH

This Tumblr is very interesting. – SH

_Is it? Why? – JW_

Something they call "JohnLock." I am not very sure what this means yet but my research is not finished. – SH

_I've not heard of it. – JW_

I think it is a pairing of you and I as more than friends. I will have to check when we get back to the flat. – SH

I am at the crime scene. Hurry your cabbie along. – SH

_Traffic. And why would anyone put that on a website? -JW_

It is apparently part of a "fandom" or something. There are hundreds of fans who believe we belong together. – SH

_We're not gay. – JW_

Well, they apparently think we are, John. – SH

_I don't know why that is. – JW_

Apparently we 'eye-fuck' a lot. – SH

_We're friends and I assist with your cases. – JW_

We live together. I have been informed most friends do not live together. – SH

I tend to sabotage your dates. Not sure why they think that one but it has been posted there. – SH

_It's true. You do sabotage my dates. – JW_

I do not! How do I? – SH

_You show up whereever I go, deduce their entire lives, or insult them until they leave. – JW_

I am only doing my job, John. – SH

_And what job is that? – JW_

As the world's only consulting detective. – SH

_What does your job have to do with my dates? – JW_

If they cannot stand what I do, they are not worth your time. – SH

_Very few people can stand it, Sherlock. – JW_

Alas, you are still here. – SH

_Yes, I wonder what that means. – JW_

What does it mean, John? – SH

_That my friendship with you is more important than my other relationship attempts? – JW_

Apparently, yes, it is. All the evidence points to so. – SH

_And? – JW_

_I don't know what I am supposed to do with that. – JW_

I do not either. I am not the one with emotions or knowledge of relationships. – SH

_Doesn't matter. I'm here. – JW_

He paid the cabbie and hurried up the stairs, trying to put the odd exchange out of his mind. The usual trading of snide comments with Donovan and Anderson took longer than usual, as he was feeling more put out by them than usual .

"Ah, John," Sherlock greeted. "Lestrade, you may now remove the idiots from the room. That is everyone but you. You are not a complete idiot," Sherlock barked without looking up from the body. As usual, the rest of the room's attendants left with annoyed mutters. John rolled his eyes as he knelt down next to the body.

"Do you absolutely have to do that?" He moved closer. "What have you got so far?"

"Yes, I only work with you and Lestrade," Sherlock said, continuing his look at the body. "Came in from Dublin two days ago, Irish origin, probably Dublin, no outward signs of death, happy marriage but even happier affair. He looks to have been a successful owner of a business of sorts and had a very busy life. May have had enemies. John?" He looked to his friend as the army doctor bent lower over the body.

"Dead no more than two hours but I cannot tell much more without an autopsy though. Like you said, no outward signs of death. Possible heart condition?" Sherlock grunted in agreement.

"Very. Skin discoloration and absence of hair of the lower extremeties, possible peripheral vascular disease or diabetes. I vote for the first." Sherlock stood and looked to Lestrade. "I want the body in the morgue and with Molly in the next hour. I need the lab open as well. Send all the clothing to 221B Baker Street. John, let's go find Mr. McCollum's family, shall we?" John stood and moved toward the door.

"He has family here? Did he travel with him or does he have family _in_ London at all?" He knew he'd get a reprieve from the awkward conversation they were sure to have now that Sherlock had a new puzzle to solve. "Let's go." Sherlock flew dow the steps to the street and hailed a cab. He waited, if only impatiently, as John followed suit. They climbed into the cab as Sherlock barked instructions to the cabbie. They sped off towards the country. John looked out the window and watched the city fly by. It was for this that he gave up all of his relationships. He loved chasing around the city after Sherlock on mad cases more than films and cuddling, not that the occasional shag would be unwelcome, but this was much more important to him.

Sherlock observed as John stared out the window. He could see the man's reflection. It was the face he reserved for dreamind during long rides but it was too soon to dream. He must have been thinking about what they had discussed earlier. Sherlock did not want to breach that subject now, not until they were back in their flat. He looked out his own window and began to organize the case in his mind palace. John was startled out of his thoughts as the cab came to a stop. He paid, as usual because Sherlock was out before the car had even come to a complete stop. He hurried to catch him up, a little taken aback by the imposing building before them.

"Hotel McCollum," Sherlock stated. "Largest Irish hotel in England. Our victim's father started it and it has become country wide." Sherlock did nto wait for John as his long legs took him swiftly inside. John followed Sherlock and wasn't surprised that he'd already found somone to interrogate. John waited quietly for his turn to smooth over all of the feathers Sherlock would be ruffling once he really got going. Sherlock decided it was high time to do something polite. He would still need John, of course, but this time, he wanted to be the nice one.

"My, my. You are as pretty as Mr. McCollum said." She blushed furiously. He could hear John gaping at him. "Say, would you mind helping us out? Mr. McCollum told us that we could come pick up his things, date book, brief case, any information about his activiies on the past couple fo days. You see, we are runners for a new client of his. Just trying to get everything smoothed over before the deal goes through."

John stood in stunned silence listening to Sherlock's performance. He could be quite convincing when he set his mind to it, even thought that wasn't often at all. He did the best he could to look like he really was there to do what Sherlock had said and was not surprised in the least when the girl led them to Mr. McCollum's office. The poor thing never had a chance with Sherlock laying it on like that. John doubted anyone would. Sherlock smiled sweetly at the woman.

"Thank you, miss. We'll ask for your help if we need it." He winked one of his electric eyes at her and shut the door. They both could hear her begin to hyperventilate on the other side. Sherlock chuckled as he set to work. "Works everytime," he muttered.

"You're a git," John muttered, beginning his search of the room. He manage a decent pile of important looking papers and found an appointment calender to add to Sherlock's stack. He looked around again to make sure they hadn't overlooked anything important.

"But I got us in, did I not?" Sherlock stated confidently, sifting through piles of paper. He looked and felt around until he found a knot on the understide of the desk. "Typical. Cannot leave the secrets in the films." He pressed down on it.

"Yes," John admitted grudingly and waited to see what Sherlock would upll from under the desk. Knowing him, whatever it was would make no sense to anyone but Sherlock and then he'd solve the puzzle and wait for John to heap praise upon him. It was their routine but neither seemed to tire of it. "What have you found?" he asked impatiently.

"This knot, here in the wood. Seems to lead to something but I have not found what yet." Sherlock felt the walls, the floor, the bookcases, until something gave way. It wasn't until he reached the painting that something happened. He pulled and pushed. It gave in to open a safe. "Aha!" Sherlock shouted. Jewels, documents, and piles of money from any different countries were stashed in the safe. "Seems as if I was right: Mr. McCollum was not his real name."

John looked over his shoulder at the hidden stash, wanting to get a closer look. "What name is on the documents? Or is there more than one?" he asked anxiously. He moved out of the way so that they could examine the items more closely on the desk.

"More," Sherlock said. The names were in different languages, countries, hemispheres. The man traveled frequently by the looks of his passports. "It looks like his most recent travel was to the States."

Adrenaline was coursing through his veins. John wanted to get out and get started. "Any idea where to begin?" he asked, trying to mask his impatience. He was getting to be as bad as Sherlock after a few weeks without a case.

"Yes," Sherlock said and strode out of the office. He flashed a dazzling smile at the woman behind the counter as a form of thanks before heading out the door. John huffed impatiently and followed closely behind, waving to the woman, not that she'd noticed him next to Sherlock. "And do you plan on sharing that information with me anytime soon?"

Sherlock stayed completely silent as they climbed into the cab. He had not heard John, rearranging his Mind Palace again. The cabbie sped off towards Scotland Yard. Sherlock shook his head few times, confused by the connections. John knew a lost cause when he saw one. Sherlock had retreated into his head and there would be no information until he was ready to come out again. He watched the city go by and his mind wandered back to their earlier conversation.

"No!" Sherlock muttered. He felt John next to him jump but he said nothing. "John, do you remember the main Irish crime lords in England?"

"Um, wasn't there the Murphys and the Dunns? he asked, trying to remember. "Those are the only two names that I can recall. Why?"

"Because McCollum isn't in the list. So why did McCollum have all those papers if he wasn't on that list? I think that someone handed over their enterprise to him at some point and he kept their name, probably to save his family's name which is one of the most prominent in Ireland. But why, _why_ would someone hand it over to _him_? What did he have that they needed?" He started muttering to himself at some point, forgetting that John was, in fact, not the skull and could respond. John was at a loss. This was Sherlock's area, not his, but he ran through the question in his mind anyway.

"Anonymity? A recently dead relative whose identity he could assume and get out of the country?"

"That's all so boring and simple. Think, John, think! What could he have - " Sherlock remembered one of the documents that he had pushed through. He thankfully had put it in his bag as they left. He rifled quickly through the pages and found the one he was looking for. At the bottom of the letter, in small letters, read JM. "Moriarty."

John paled. Not Moriarty, he thought they were done with him. His mind automatically went back to the pool. He could smell the chlorine and feel the weight of the semtex. He tried to get his expression under control, he wouldn't let the man beat them again.

Sherlock's head instantly pounded, memories of everything Moriarty had done to them crashing back around them. The lab. The pool. The bombs. The roof. The goddamn roof. Sherlock shut his eyes tightly at the memory and at the memory of watching John at his tombstone. He remembered his days underground, when every one of Moriarty's men thought he was dead. He couldn't believe that, like him, Moriarty was still alive. And this, this was his new game. John watched Sherlock closely, knowing he was just as affected. There was no way that Moriarty could be back. He'd shot himself, but then, there was no way that Sherlock could have survived the fall, but here he was. John thought back to the worst three years of his life. He'd almost ended it several times and Moriarty would have had them both in the end. He ran a hand through his hair in agitation.

"He's back, John. We can't deny that anymore," Sherlock growled.

"Right, okay. So what are we going to do about it?" he asked, voice cracking slightly. "We don't separate, obviously. And Mycroft should know immediately. He can pick up Mrs. Hudson and Greg and keep them safe for now." Sherlock scoffed.

"England would fall if Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street. She's safer with us. Lestrade won't leave work but I'm sure Mycroft can at least monitor him. And Molly."

"Yes, but if you didn't notice, we're not with her right now."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Fine, she will be under surveillance too. But she stays at Baker Street. Everyone is to continue on their daily lives. We can't let Moriarty know we are onto him so early in the game."

"Do you really think he doesn't know that we've been here already?" the doctor asked. "We underestimated him once before and it cost us."

"I will _never_ underestimate him again," Sherlock growled. "It cost me too much. I just don't want us jumping into this one before we are ready to face him. We both know that if we do, this time we won't survive."

John nodded. He knew without a doubt that it was the truth and the possibility of losing Sherlock again was unthinkable. "Back to Baker Street then?"

Sherlock nodded and retreated into his Mind Palace again. The ride back was very quiet. At times, it made Sherlock uncomfortable. He wanted John to say something but he didn't know what. He kept quiet, his fingers pressed against his lips, and studied the city outside the cab. John sat quietly with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair. Images flashed through his mind. Moriarty's face, Sherlock's grave, the rooftop, Sherlock's body, broken and bloody on the pavement. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block them out.

Sherlock noticed John tense up next to him. He was unsure what to do. Couples took hands. Friends hugged. What could Sherlock do? He did what he thought was acceptable and put his hand on John's shoulder. If he at least made it known he was there, for John...

The hand startled him out of his trance. He looked over and nodded at Sherlock. Thinking for the thousandth time since Moriarty's name had resurfaced that there was no way he would allow Moriarty to take Sherlock from him again.

They arrived at 221B Baker Street in silence. Sherlock paid the cabbie then made his way upstairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's evening greeting. He pushed open the door to their flat and discarded his coat and scarf onto the sofa. He began to pace. John sat on the sofa and pulled out his laptop. He wasn't sure what he was looking for but he needed to feel like he was doing something. His eyes darted between the screen and Sherlock.

Sherlock felt John's gaze on him as he paced. Normally, he could ignore it but today, it burned him. He felt his face begin to flush. He paced faster so it would seem like he was reddening from the pace. He drifted off from the case and began to think about their earlier conversation. "No," he thought, "the _case_. I need to think about the _case_." "Dammit!" He said aloud.

Sherlock rarely swore, most of the time he found it too pedestrian. John looked up color draining from his face, "What? Besides the obvious, of course."

"You," he stated. "Out." It wasn't a request. It was a demand. Sherlock furiously started pacing again, closing his eyes tightly. He tried to push the texts out of his mind but they kept coming back, harder and brighter than before.

"Fine," John snapped back, unplugging his laptop and heading for the stairs and stomping up them in frustration. He didn't care if it was childish, there was so much pent up anger and if it didn't go somewhere, he'd go mad from it.

The brilliant detective sighed and stopped pacing. He knew he had just hurt John's feelings but the man was so goddamn distracting lately! He never said a word but his mere presence was enough. Sherlock didn't know what it was. He just couldn't place it. 'I'll apologize later,' Sherlock thought and took back to slowly pacing the room.

John paced his bedroom, far too anxious to be still. All he could think of was Sherlock's body on the pavement and this time if it happened, it would be for real, not that the last time hadn't been real enough for him. He wanted to do something. No, not something, he knew exactly what he wanted to do and that was to put a bullet into Moriarty himself and make sure there was no way he was coming back from it.

Sherlock stopped and looked up at the ceiling. He could hear John's pacing. Sherlock paced. John didn't. This was a very bad sign. It meant John was thinking, angrily thinking, and it probably had something to do with Sherlock. The great detective sat down on the sofa and pulled out his phone. He knew it was usually impolite but he really did not know what else to do. He sent a short text to John who, yes, was ten feet above him: _Sorry - SH_

_It's fine. -JW_

John was about to toss the phone onto the bed when instead he scrolled though their earlier conversation. He decided he wasn't ready to deal with that on top of everything else and threw the phone aside.

_No, John, it isn't. I truly am sorry. It was just...distracting me from the case. - SH_

How he could actually feel remorse started to confuse him. He heard the phone hit the floor upstairs and decided that that was it. John was done talking for the night. He put his own phone in his pocket and decided that sleep would help.

All the doctor wanted was to be out of the flat. He needed fresh air and to walk and think but it has been his own idea that they not wander off separately. He cursed himself for it. Maybe he could go for just a bit. Mycroft had CCTV monitoring everywhere, so he wouldn't really be alone. Sherlock heard John's footsteps pass his room half an hour later. Anger surged through him. Had it not been John's idea not to separate? Had he not been the one more paranoid about Moriarty finding them? No, no, that was Sherlock's doing. But they shouldn't separate. Last time wound John in a bomb. But he was an adult and older than Sherlock. He could do what he wanted. So why did it still hurt?

John had been walking for half an hour when the black car pulled up beside him. He rolled his eyes, had Sherlock sent Mycroft to fetch him, or was Mycroft acting on his own? The door opened and he decided he'd just better get it over with. Mycroft could give him his telling off and then he'd go home and let Sherlock do the same. He got in and shut the door.

Sherlock laid in his bed wide awake waiting for John's return. It had been almost two hours before he couldn't take it anymore. He pick up his phone and sent a hurried text to John.

_Where are you? - SH_

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. No response

_John, answer me. Where. Are. You. - SH_

Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Noo response

_John, I'm going to find you. You can't hide from me. - SH_

Sherlock bounded out of bed, adrenaline rushing now. He quickly put on a shirt and trousers, not bothering with the suit jacket. He kicked on a pair of shoes and ran out the door, coat and scarf in hand. He didn't say anything to Mrs. Hudson who stumbled out of her flat to ask him about the noise. He hailed a cab fairly quickly and shot of to Sarah's. John's safe spot.

The first thought John had was that his shoulder hurt. It was being pulled uncomfortably because he was tied to a chair in a warehouse. God, how he hated warehouses. He listened but couldn't hear any movement or noise nearby. He willed himself not to panic even though this was exactly the nightmare situation he'd been afraid of. He took deep breaths and tried to stay calm.

"John's not here, Sherlock," Sarah said for the second time. The tall man finally accepted it and paled. She could tell that something was wrong but before she could ask, he peeled off, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Mycroft," he said, panicked, "John's missing. Find him."

Footsteps approached from behind and he twisted to try and see who was coming, but he couldn't turn far enough. A hand rested on his shoulder and the last voice he'd ever hoped to hear said, "The pet slipped the leash. You should know better than to wander so far from home."

The uncomfortable silence thickened in the back of the car as Mycroft and Sherlock rode down to Mycroft's home. He kept all of his personal surveillance there and the one following John was still running, last time Mycroft checked. Sherlock's fingers rapt against his knee to Mycroft's annoyance.

"For God's sake, Sherlock! Stop it!" Mycroft said harshly.

"John is gone, Mycroft. How do you expect me to react?" He growled through his teeth, refusing to look at his brother.

"John is a grown man. Grow up and let him have his space." Mycroft retorted.

"No, no, John doesn't do this. He is always at Sarah's after we have a row. Moriarty is back and now John is missing. What do you think I am to - " His phone went off. He pulled it out quickly and his heart fell. A picture of John, beaten, bruised, bloodied, and alone was splashed on the screen.

"Your pet is loose. What kind of owner are you, Sherlock? I have a shock collar if you need to borrow it. JM"

"DRIVE!" Sherlock shouted. John...

John woke and groaned. Everything hurt, he could feel the dried blood, itchy on his temple and he was so thirsty. He wondered what time it was. There was no way of telling how long he'd been gone or how long he'd been passed out. He tried twisting his hands but the ropes were still just as tight as the last time he'd tried it. He knew he was going to die in this room and he knew it was his own fault, and even worse than that, he knew that Sherlock would be allowed to see it one way or another. He thought of what Sherlock had gone thorough to save the three of them the last time and he hoped that Greg and Mrs. Hudson would still be safe. They'd take care of Sherlock for him, he knew that, so he figured that two out of three weren't bad odds and he would gladly have switched places had it been either one of them here instead.

"What do you mean he's gone?" Sherlock shouted. Mycroft's face was emotionless as Sherlock paced, irate at his brother's employee's incompetence. "You pay this man to watch over John and then this man suddenly _disappears_? Just as John does? Either he was paid or killed but I really don't care. Where was the last place he saw John?" His breathing is deep, his thoughts racing. He had to find John. He cared about nothing else.

"Baker Street," the computer tech said. Sherlock growled.

"That tells us NOTHING!" He pulled at his hair, thinking faster and faster until he could no longer see the differences between the thoughts. "Where are your videos for Baker street? The one from the deli?" Sherlock turned on Mycroft.

"I don't know what you're - "

"I know you have access to those too. You won't leave my life alone, Mycroft. You have every camera in London under your control. Now tell me. Where. Are. They?" Sherlock was downright frightening. Even Mycroft did not want to cross his path at this point but it was too late. He nodded at the computer tech who switched the video over to Baker Street. Video by video, they finally followed John and the black car until it reached twenty minutes in. After that, the cameras were turned or black. "I know where he is," Sherlock shouted as he ran.

Moriarty was enjoying this more that he'd imagined he would. He knew that Sherlock was somewhere, spinning his wheels and fretting over this ordinary little man, and though it made little sense to him, it provided entertainment, which was all he really wanted. He wanted to not be bored. He watched impassively as one of his men roughed up Sherlock's pet a bit more. John did bruise so nicely for the pictures. "I like that," he called over. "Send it."

Sherlock's phone went off again. Another picture of John. Another grip of fear, of hurt, of anger. Sherlock gripped the phone so tightly he was afraid he'd break it.

"Faster," he growled at the driver. "But sir, we're already - " "I don't give a damn! Faster!" he nearly shouted. A single tear of pure rage ran down his face. This was no time to let these emotions go. This was no time to even _have_ emotions. Within minutes, the driver arrived at the warehouse. Sherlock sprinted out of the car, not even remembering to shut the door or pay the man.

"Oi!" Nothing. Sherlock heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears. He grabbed the gun he nicked from Mycroft and held it up next to his head, preparing to shoot anyone he saw. It was time to get John back.

More pain, more fear, how much longer could they drag it out? He almost wished he'd died in Afghanistan. At least that would have served a purpose and Sherlock would be spared having to bury his friend? Flat mate? He flashed back to their conversation. Sherlock was right, whatever they were, it wasn't ordinary. He remembered how he'd felt when Sherlock had died and he wished that Sherlock could be spared because John knew it would be the same for him. He'd feel the same guilt that he hadn't been able to save him, that there was something that he could have done differently. John remembered it all too well, except this was his fault, entirely. He hoped that Sherlock would know that he was sorry.

_John. John_. Sherlock chanted his name in his mind as he ran. It was a more elaborate warehouse than needed. He kicked down every door but no one was behind any of them. There was one last door, one last try. He slowed down to collect his breathing, his thoughts. When he had been mostly composed, he kicked in the last door. From here on out, he would only remember this as a nightmare. The one nightmare he knew would one day come true but wished never had. In the middle of the room, John slumped in a chair, beaten to near unconsciousness. His head was bleeding. His eye was bruised shut. His jumper was torn from the beatings, exposing the bleeding skin beneath. It looked also as if one of his legs was broken.

"John," Sherlock whispered, horrified.

"I told you, Sherlock. I would burn the heart out of you. I wasn't aware it would take this long though." Jim Moriarty, very much alive, smiled as he came out of the shadows. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and his grin bared his teeth at Sherlock.

"Don't you _dare_ touch him!" Sherlock growled. Moriarty laughed.

"But can't you see? I already have. Just because he was attached to _you_. This is your entire fault, Sherlock. All. Your. Fault."

John tried to open his eyes, he could swear that he heard Sherlock's voice, impossible as it was. No one knew where he'd been taken. Moriarty had made sure to tell him that much. After John was dead, Sherlock would get the address. He'd come collect the body because that's all that would be left to do.

"Sherlock?" he croaked. He tried to shrug the hand off his shoulder and winced in pain. He knew whose hand it was and he'd endure any amount of pain to get it off of him. He tried again and it gripped tighter, squeezing his bruised skin.

Sherlock watched as John tried to regain consciousness. He saw as Moriarty squeezed his old war wound, inflicting so much pain on John. He wanted to shout, to scream, to kill the man with his bare hands. But as long as he had his hands on John, Sherlock could do nothing.

"You know, I once thought we were the same, Sherlock, you and I. We could have been so brilliant together. Not that we aren't brilliant alone, oh no. But I can now see why it would have never worked. Sociopaths tend to change, I can see that. Psychopaths," he grinned, "well, I think we know that result. But listen to me, Sherlock," Moriarty's face turned dark and murderous, "you are going to sit right there and you are going to watch me as I tear John to pieces. Slowly. Intimately. Just. For. You." He grinned under the murderous look. "Do you know why?" Sherlock's mind was locked, trapped. He knew the answer but he couldn't locate it.

"B-because I destroyed you. Everything you had." Moriarty's laughter filled the room.

"No, because it's _fun_."

"Not your fault, Sherlock," John managed and gasped as Moriarty squeezed his shoulder again. He could see him now, fuzzy but it well enough and he didn't doubt that Moriarty meant to carry out the threat. "Go," he whispered. He desperately wanted to spare Sherlock this. He knew what it was like to watch someone you love die and he didn't want that for Sherlock. Moriarty looked down at John and smiled.

"Still so loyal even after all this. I doubt that my Sebastian would even go that far for me. I'm a touch jealous, but that will only make this more fun."

"No," Sherlock whispered. "No, John, I won't leave you again!" Moriarty cackled.

"This is much better than I ever imagined!" He squeezed John harder. John let out a cry of pain, which would ring in Sherlock's ears for months. "Beg for me, Sherlock. Beg for your pet's life. Beg me to save him." Sherlock could not feel any lower than he was. He looked down. Somehow, he had fallen and was groveling on his knees. The pain from the fall suddenly shot through him and he gasped. But his own pain was not the issue. He pushed himself back up, gun in hand, and aimed it at Moriarty's head. He tried to keep his hand from shaking. He had to be brave. He had to be a soldier.

John watched Sherlock go to his knees, horrified by what Moriarty had made him do. If he'd been able to get just one hand free, it would have been enough because he wouldn't need more than that to kill Moriarty for that alone. He watched as Sherlock stood again. He knew that look. He'd seen it on every soldier going into battle.

Sherlock's face was completely blank. It was blank of thought. Of emotion. Of humanity. Sherlock was gone and in his place was a machine. The machine that had been living in the long and lanky body for over thirty years, the one that had been destroyed the moment it had to watch as John stood scared in a bomb. But it hadn't been destroyed. It had been dormant. And it had taken over.

"I will ask you one last time, Moriarty," the machine said, it's voice sharp, harsh, and loud, "Let - the man - go." Moriarty tensed against John's shoulder. He had never seen this before.

"Moran," Moriarty said tentatively, "our guest needs a seat." Suddenly, two large hands grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. Automatically, Sherlock spun around, grabbed the man's pressure points, and flipped him to the ground. The man kicked at Sherlock, catching his ankles. Sherlock fell with a resounding thud. He was quickly back on his feet just as Moran jumped up. Sherlock made a swat at the man's eyes but was punched in the stomach. He felt a rib crack. Bent over, he jammed the gun into Moran's knee, enough to paralyze him. Moran fell. Sherlock stood over him, gun to his forehead.

"Sherlock - NO!"

Moriarty watched in horror as Sherlock took Moran down. No one had even done that before. After working so hard to wring reactions from Sherlock, for the first time, he felt fear at what he'd unleashed. His eyes darted between Moran and Sherlock, calculating. If Sherlock killed Moran, John was dead. John would be dead anyway, but he hadn't counted on a loss of his own. Was that what Sherlock was doing? Kill Moran so that Moriarty would kill John in a rage. Make it faster and painless? He had no intention of doing that. No matter what happened next, John would suffer and Sherlock would watch, just like he'd planned from the start. He'd avenge Sebastian later, but for now he had to focus. He locked eyes with Sherlock.

John and Moriarty's combined shout gave Sherlock pause. He had killed before. He was not adverse to do so again. But then part of his humanity seeped back in. _If you kill him, Moriarty will kill John. All of this will have been for naught. Stop. Stop and save John_. Sherlock looked up and locked eyes with Moriarty. There was a slight pang of hurt in his dark eyes. Sherlock's lip curled. Moriarty would never be able to feel love, not like Sherlock did. But he would lose an ally if he lost Moran.

"I know how this will end, Moriarty. I kill Moran. You kill John. We both lose. You will never agree to a trade. We are at an impasse," Sherlock said confidently. Moriarty laughed,

"Nothing has changed, Sherlock. If you kill Moran, John will die even more painfully than I had originally planned. I'm very creative and you know that I will do it. You'll have to listen to him beg for death for days before I oblige him," he looked down at Sebastian, "Now you'd better let him up or as soon as I've finished with John, Mrs. Hudson will be next. I know she won't last as long, but I'll make sure to take my time. Your choice." He waited.

Sherlock complied. He took the gun away from Moran and lifted his foot off the injured knee. Moran crawled up. As he reached level, Sherlock elbowed him in the nose, for good measure. Moriarty growled. Sherlock smiled.

"Not part of our deal, Moriarty. You just said to let him up as I did." The machine part of Sherlock lurked but it was almost completely abetted. Moran sulked in between Moriarty and Sherlock, ready to pounce at beck and call. Then Sherlock thought of something. "Like you said, I only have to let him up...and let him live." He quickly took aim and shot Moran in the knee. Moriarty was temporarily distracted. John kicked him as Sherlock sped over to John's side. He grabbed Moriarty's hand off of John's shoulder and with it, flipped him onto the ground.

Moriarty's head hit the concrete with a crack and he didn't move again. As soon as he was down, John began to struggle against the ropes. He'd been afraid to move before now, not wanting to do anything to break Sherlock's concentration. He was desperate to have a close look at Moriarty. He needed to know if he was dead, and if he wasn't he would make sure of it this time.

Sherlock ran to John and struggled with the ropes. After a few minutes, he was finally able to release John from the chair. He knew what John was about to do. He could read it in the man's eyes. Before he would allow him to do _anything_ though, he hugged him. Sherlock pulled John into an iron grip hug, surely squeezing the breath out of both of them. But he didn't care. John gasped. The hug was painful, but he wouldn't have let go for anything in the world. His whole body ached and he was dizzy from loss of blood but the only thing that mattered was that Sherlock was here and safe and would remain that way.

"Please, I have to know," he said, barely over a whisper.

Sherlock's ribs ached from the hug. He heard John speak but wasn't able to fully understand him. He didn't want to break apart. He didn't want the possibility of losing John to come true again. John's plea finally made it to his brain. He slowly let go and went to check on Moriarty. His breaths were slow and ragged. He was hardly alive. Sherlock's rage boiled, his overpowering urge to smash the man's skull into the ground was blinding. Before he could make a clear decision, the man spoke.

"I-I told you - I-I'd burn-urn you. A-aren't ni-nightma-mares the be-est burn of all?" He chuckled before the light went out of his eyes. Jim Moriarty, the infamous psychopathic consulting criminal, was finally dead.

John let out a sigh of relief. Moriarty was right, there would be nightmares for both of them, and for a long time to come, but they were alive and together, and there was no one left to fear in the daylight. Now that the adrenaline was leaving his system, he felt every injury. He began to catalog them. Concussion, yes. Cracked ribs, definitely. Blood loss, more than was healthy. Three broken fingers, cuts, various bruises, he felt them all and fought the nausea that came with that amount of pain. Sherlock left Moriarty's body where it lay. Aware of his own pain, he hobbled over to John to help him up.

"This'll be quite one for you blog, won't it, John?" For some reason, he felt like they needed a laugh. He quickly sent out a text to Lestrade for an ambulance and all the police he could muster. Hoisting most of John's weight on his shoulder, Sherlock led the two out the door to greet the oncoming police. _So what no_w? he thought. _'What now'_ _what_? An internal argument. That's all he needed.

John let out a small chuckle, "I might have to dictate it to you for once. I won't be typing very well for a while, he said, "well, even worse than my usual typing with these." He held up his hand. Once outside, he allowed himself to be strapped onto a gurney and loaded into an ambulance without complaint. There was no fight left in him and he wanted a morphine drip as soon as was humanly possible.

Sherlock fought with the EMTs for a few minutes before he was allowed to ride with John. He agreed, rather unwillingly, that he would let them attend to his own wounds once they arrived at the hospital if they let him ride with his friend. He gingerly climbed in next to the gurney, wary of the wires and various items strapped to John. He wasn't sure what to do. He just knew that this is where he was supposed to be. He laid a hand on the gurney next to John, not speaking, looking anywhere but at the man lying down. The drugs were making him tired and he fought hard to stay awake, he was afraid to let Sherlock out of his sight. He rested his hand against Sherlock's but stayed quiet. There was no energy left for talking and nothing that needed to be said. Sherlock had found him and saved him.

As John dozed off into a drug induce sleep, Sherlock had every urge to tell him every thought that had crossed his mind since they had met. He fought himself, fought his thoughts, but the sleep depravity and adrenaline aftermaths forced him to admit one thing. Looking down at their overlapping hands, he whispered "I love you, John."

When John finally woke, jerking himself out of a nightmare, he was in a private room, Sherlock curled in a ball in a chair beside his bed. The drugs amplified the dreams and it took a minute for him to calm his breathing.

"Hey," he said, voice hoarse. "You stayed. You didn't have to do that."

Sherlock did not reply, he only smiled at the fact that John was still alive. He didn't have words to express how happy he was. Happy wasn't even the best word for it. While John had been asleep, he played the moments that meant the most to him about John. His acceptance to live with him, to become his forensics team, to become his blogger. How he saved Sherlock's life more than once. How he risked his life for Sherlock more than he could count. How he tried to talk Sherlock down from the ledge. His speech at Sherlock's tombstone. His anger and joy and surprise when Sherlock returned. But this - this was the happiest moment to date. John and Sherlock were alive, together, and Moriarty was dead. John and Sherlock were alive.

"Yes, I did." Sherlock said. 'The nurses could not tolerate me in my own room but would not allow me to leave the hospital yet. So your room it was."

"The poor nurses," he said, smiling a little, now that the dream was receding. "Bloody nightmare of a patient you are, I should know." He went quiet and looked up at the ceiling. What did you say to someone who had saved your life? "Thank you," he whispered, "If you hadn't...I would...just, thank you." Sherlock chuckled for a moment, remembering the horror on the nurses faces every time the had to enter his room. Then he started outright laughing. John joined in. After a few minutes of uncontrollable laughter, he was able to breath enough to say "No thanks needed."

It was a few minutes before John was able to ask the question he was most anxious to have an answer to.

"Any idea when we'll be going home? I know I've just woken up, but I really want to get out of here. I should be able to get around just fine, if not a little but slower than normal, and I can kip on the sofa if the stairs are a problem. I want to go home." he left out the "with you."

Sherlock's face was stoic again.

"The nurses want confirmation that someone /capable/ will be able to assist you back to health. I do not think the word of a madman is enough for them. Until then, we may be here a couple of days. I think Mycroft or Lestrade is trying to get us out."

"You're going to stay here with me? In a hospital? On purpose?" He asked in amazement.

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. "...Yes."

John looked him in the eye, "Why?"

"Because...because I care."

"I care too, and I would stay with you."

Sherlock smiled sadly. "No you wouldn't. Like you said, I'm a bloody nightmare of a patient. Besides..." he looked down at his knees, not knowing if he wanted to finish the thought. He opted not to and shook his head.

"Yes I would, nightmare or not." John reached a hand out to rest on Sherlock's knee. "Besides what?"

Sherlock looked in John's dark blue eyes. Inside of them, he felt like he could say anything. "No one stays," he finished quietly. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." he repeated.

"Where do you think I'm going to go? I've never left you. I know it wasn't your fault, but you left me," he sighed.

Sherlock looked sharply at John. "I had to do that. I had to leave and you know that."

"I know. So I repeat, I've never left you, even after that, so why do you think I will now?"

"I've put you through so much danger. I've almost cost you your life many times over. Being near me is more dangerous than-than being in that wretched war!" Sherlock was almost shouting. He breathed in deeply for a moment. "You nearly died two days ago, John. Why would you stay?"

"You saved my life two days ago," he corrected, "and you saved me the day that I met you. I wasn't adjusting well being back home and they wouldn't send me back like I was. I limped and I was in pain all the time...I don't think I would have lasted long if I hadn't met you." He looked down, embarrassed to admit that much. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock sat up a little straighter. He had been so aware of his own life, of what his brilliance did in the world of crime, that he didn't realize how much of an impact he had on John. If it were for this confession, he might have never noticed. But then again, John had impacted his life drastically too.

"I'm not alone," he started. "I'm not cold or heartless. I'm not a machine. I may not relate to others but I have a link to humanity. I don't have my own heart but I have someone who knows where it is." The words were spilling out faster than he could comprehend, than he could control. "I'm not always so bored or angry. I don't have as many addictions. You saved my life too, John."

The ex-army doctor smiled, "I disagree, I know you have your own heart, you just need reminding sometimes," he looked down at the blankets and began picking at a loose thread. "I think it might be time to finish our other conversation."

Sherlock looked surprised and slightly confused. Other conversation? "Other conversation?" he asked, not sure where this was leading. The heart monitor registered John's increased heart rate, beeping faster. Now that he'd started, there was nothing for it but to keep going. Sherlock would never let it go if he tried to backpedal now. He took a deep breath.

"The conversation we were having before everything went to hell. About what sort of relationship we actually have."

"Ha!" Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. "Like I said, there is no word for it, John."

"Maybe not, but what do you think it is?" he pressed.

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. "I'm not sure where you're going, John," he admitted.

John's heart was pounding, this could be possibly the dumbest thing he'd ever done, and he'd invaded Afghanistan. "I think... I mean... I'm fairly certain that I...I love you."

All of Sherlock's walls, every defense he ever built to shield the outside world, crumbled. The emotions he had held back for months, possibly years, flooded forth and formed into incoherent thoughts. The words he had fantasized hearing over and over again had finally come true. The man he had fallen in love with, the army doctor who put up with his crazy experiments, his vigilante life style, his inability to communicate with a majority of the outside world, actually truly loved him back. He wanted to say those words again and again, just like he had in the ambulance but only one thought came out. "I thought you weren't gay?" Instant regret. Sherlock grimaced at his words before correcting himself. "I'm sorry, John. That's not what I meant to say." He breathed in deeply and took John's hand. "What I meant was I love you too."

John squeezed his hand. "Good. Thank God, I thought I'd just screwed everything up." He smiled, "and I'm not gay. It's just you. I want you. It doesn't matter that you're a man, you're you." He hoped he'd explained himself properly, or at least enough for Sherlock to understand. Sherlock smiled.

"Good, because as far as I'm concerned, there is only you too." He stood up and kissed John on the forehead the way he had in the ambulance. He wasn't aware of other people's reactions. He wasn't aware of the EMT in the ambulance. He wasn't aware of Mycroft or Lestrade silently in the door. The only person in his world was John and that was all that mattered to him. He smiled and took Sherlock's hand, keeping him close.

"After I give that big speech you're not even going to give me a proper kiss?" he asked, feeling ridiculously giddy and tilting his face up.

"I beg you to refrain for the time being," Mycroft said from the doorway. "Some of us have just had breakfast." Sherlock and John jumped.

"Mycroft," Sherlock spat. Mycroft gave him his all-knowing stare for a moment. Sherlock sighed and resigned. "Thank you for helping me save John," he muttered lazily. John would have made him thank him sooner or later. He rolled his head around much like a child would as he let the form of gratitude hung in the air. "Now, kindly, _leave_."

"I'll be back in half an hour. We have things to discuss." He turned, "Gregory, would you like to join me for a mediocre cup of tea?" They both turned to leave. "Half an hour, Sherlock."

"I think I'll need more than half an hour," Sherlock muttered as he leaned in to kiss his flatmate. His friend. His best friend. His love. His life. His John. Their lips touched for the first time. The sensation was extremely intoxicating for Sherlock. He had never had physical contact like this before. It felt like a burning that flew through his veins, through his entire body. He was very certain that half an hour would not do. John leaned up into the kiss, tentative at first and slowly deepening the kiss. He couldn't help but want to kick himself for not having done this months, if not years ago. He broke the kiss.

"Half an hour is definitely not enough," he said before pressing his lips to Sherlock's again. Sherlock, unaware completely of what he was doing, went with this natural instinct. He swiped his tongue across John's lower lip, begging for entrance. He was slightly surprised when John chuckled and allowed. He explored the inside of John's mouth. Half an hour? Who was Mycroft kidding? Half an hour would be over too soon. John's hand went to Sherlock's hair and he ran his fingers through the curls that he'd never realized he wanted to touch so badly. He allowed Sherlock to lead the kiss and smiled against his lips.

The half an hour came as quickly as Sherlock thought it would. Mycroft and Lestrade strode back into the room; Lestrade left just as quickly. Mycroft, on the other hand, used his umbrella to break the two up by banging on the door frame. The two broke apart rather reluctantly.

"I have arranged for the two of you to return to Baker Street. I see now that I may not have to hire a personal doctor for John. Pack your things. We leave soon." Sherlock helped John out of the bed and the needles. John laughed as Sherlock tried not to irritate the nurses as they left. Once they got in the car, Sherlock kissed John's forehead and asked, "Should I tell Mrs. Hudson or should you that we no longer need that second bedroom?" John only blushed.


End file.
